women. Adults and children. Lovers. Parents.
It was past time they were given peace.
She’d missed Kestrel more, not less, as the weeks turned into months. But how could she go back to Eden? How could they ever make a relationship work?
She would always be a Morin. However, perhaps she could win her archangel’s trust, just as he’d won hers. He’d spared her parents when he had no reason to, so he must feel as strongly about her as she did about him. At least, that’s what she hoped.
It was high time she did the right thing by the archangels. By Kestrel. Her family would always mean the world to her. They may never forgive her, but they’d never stop loving her. She walked around the room the way one walked through a graveyard: looking at the memorials, but unable to see the beings they once were. As she moved, she held a bottle of accelerant upside down, drizzling the sweet-smelling liquid behind her and over the mahogany frames of the display cases. Which were Skye and Thrush? She’d never know. The cases had no names.
In the center of the room, a perfect set of wings hung suspended by clear cords in a massive glass case. White feathers with silver streaks that glimmered like diamonds. Unlike the other displays, this one had a name: Michael. Legend had it, Michael was one of the first archangels to fall to earth, and he’d possessed a psychic talent that provided him an indefinite lifespan. Supposedly, he’d been thousands of years old. Most people didn’t believe in the psychic abilities of archangels, but still, Michael’s reputation had made him the most sought-after target for centuries.
Her great-grandfather had trapped and killed him in 1910 and made the front page of major newspapers. The articles were mounted under glass beneath the wings.
And thus had begun the Morin family legacy.
She splashed the flammable fluid around on the wooden frame. Leaving the area dripping, she moved quickly through the section devoted to younger “specimens.” Children . She completed her circuit around the room, breathing hard, chilled, and nauseous.
She tossed the empty bottle aside and stepped carefully out of the liquid on the floor. She propped the door open to feed oxygen into the space and took one last, long look at the carnage her family had instigated.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” she said into the silence. “But it’s the best I can do.”
Finally, she lit a match and tossed it.
Chapter Eleven
“She did what? ” Kestrel stared at Decimus. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” The Guardian joined him under the pavilion, the same location where Kes had kissed Saffron during the thunderstorm. He leaned against the railing. Dec’s orange eyes were brighter than normal—if that were possible—under the light of the demon-fire lamp that illuminated the shelter for the evening. “She was treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, then released.”
Kes stared out at the dark gardens. Demons worked, trimming the bushes in preparation for winter. The scent of frost filled the air. Had it been only a few months since Saffron had left? Seemed like years. Long, empty years. Every day, he carried a sense of loss.
“Our liaison in the Montreal Police says every single feather was destroyed. Half the mansion along with them.”
“That’s fantastic news,” Kes said, hearing the flatness in his own voice. Despite the momentous announcement, Kes couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. He was suddenly too tired. Tired of the ridiculous ache in his chest. “I’m going to turn in.”
Her actions made it all worse. Torching the family collection was not only respectable, but redeemable. If there was any way for her, as a Morin, to earn the colony’s respect, she had done it. Kes could conceivably invite her to visit him and Roman would allow it. Of course, he’d burned that bridge, chopped the ropes, and let the bond they’d had fall flaming into a bottomless canyon.
He stepped out from under the
It was past time they were given peace.
She’d missed Kestrel more, not less, as the weeks turned into months. But how could she go back to Eden? How could they ever make a relationship work?
She would always be a Morin. However, perhaps she could win her archangel’s trust, just as he’d won hers. He’d spared her parents when he had no reason to, so he must feel as strongly about her as she did about him. At least, that’s what she hoped.
It was high time she did the right thing by the archangels. By Kestrel. Her family would always mean the world to her. They may never forgive her, but they’d never stop loving her. She walked around the room the way one walked through a graveyard: looking at the memorials, but unable to see the beings they once were. As she moved, she held a bottle of accelerant upside down, drizzling the sweet-smelling liquid behind her and over the mahogany frames of the display cases. Which were Skye and Thrush? She’d never know. The cases had no names.
In the center of the room, a perfect set of wings hung suspended by clear cords in a massive glass case. White feathers with silver streaks that glimmered like diamonds. Unlike the other displays, this one had a name: Michael. Legend had it, Michael was one of the first archangels to fall to earth, and he’d possessed a psychic talent that provided him an indefinite lifespan. Supposedly, he’d been thousands of years old. Most people didn’t believe in the psychic abilities of archangels, but still, Michael’s reputation had made him the most sought-after target for centuries.
Her great-grandfather had trapped and killed him in 1910 and made the front page of major newspapers. The articles were mounted under glass beneath the wings.
And thus had begun the Morin family legacy.
She splashed the flammable fluid around on the wooden frame. Leaving the area dripping, she moved quickly through the section devoted to younger “specimens.” Children . She completed her circuit around the room, breathing hard, chilled, and nauseous.
She tossed the empty bottle aside and stepped carefully out of the liquid on the floor. She propped the door open to feed oxygen into the space and took one last, long look at the carnage her family had instigated.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” she said into the silence. “But it’s the best I can do.”
Finally, she lit a match and tossed it.
Chapter Eleven
“She did what? ” Kestrel stared at Decimus. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” The Guardian joined him under the pavilion, the same location where Kes had kissed Saffron during the thunderstorm. He leaned against the railing. Dec’s orange eyes were brighter than normal—if that were possible—under the light of the demon-fire lamp that illuminated the shelter for the evening. “She was treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, then released.”
Kes stared out at the dark gardens. Demons worked, trimming the bushes in preparation for winter. The scent of frost filled the air. Had it been only a few months since Saffron had left? Seemed like years. Long, empty years. Every day, he carried a sense of loss.
“Our liaison in the Montreal Police says every single feather was destroyed. Half the mansion along with them.”
“That’s fantastic news,” Kes said, hearing the flatness in his own voice. Despite the momentous announcement, Kes couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. He was suddenly too tired. Tired of the ridiculous ache in his chest. “I’m going to turn in.”
Her actions made it all worse. Torching the family collection was not only respectable, but redeemable. If there was any way for her, as a Morin, to earn the colony’s respect, she had done it. Kes could conceivably invite her to visit him and Roman would allow it. Of course, he’d burned that bridge, chopped the ropes, and let the bond they’d had fall flaming into a bottomless canyon.
He stepped out from under the
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